


Motorways

by nerakrose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Challenge: rs_games, Character Study, Drama, M/M, Post-Azkaban, just-out-of-azkaban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerakrose/pseuds/nerakrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius is given a lift by a friendly lorry driver after escaping Azkaban.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motorways

**Author's Note:**

> The bit in italics at the beginning is a quote from the song “I am the Highway” by Audioslave. Originally written for rs_games 2011 (Team Sirius) at LJ.

_Long and weary my road has been_  
I was lost in the cities  
Alone in the hills  
I put millions of miles under my heels and still too close to you I feel

 

*

Sirius had no recollection of how he'd gotten to where he was; all he felt was sand under his paws and a strong, tangy smell of salt and sea weed and that he was soaked. His waterlogged fur was heavy and threatened to pull him down; he was more than exhausted and could barely summon the energy to shake the water off. He dragged himself off the beach and followed his nose to what seemed to be a barn. He crawled into the hay and slept.

 

*

The world, when he woke up, seemed different. Gone was the exhausted stupor and fear welled up in him, fear and rage, inexplicable rage towards someone he'd thought was his friend, someone who'd turned out to be a liar and who was now a threat to the last person he was allowed to love. Was he allowed to love him? He didn't know anymore, but he loved him. The fear in his chest attested to that.

It was night again, he thought. Everything was quiet, in the sense that the world had just gone to sleep and all that was to be heard was its soft breathing. The leaves in the trees outside rustled, the hay creaked and Sirius heard a horse snort nearby. He crawled out of the hay and changed into his human self.

Exhaustion weighed down his bones but he felt freer than he'd felt in a long time. It was warm in the barn, dusty and it smelled of horse and dog (not himself, he thought, but the scent was vague and Sirius realised the other dog must've been long gone) and cats and mice.

A single look down at himself told him what a sorry state his body was in. His grey prison rags hung off his bony frame. He thought maybe he had been able to fill out those clothes when he first got them, twelve years ago, but he wasn't sure. The memories were hazy. At least he looked cleaner than he thought he would be. Must've been the sea. He smelled of it too, the sea and the hay.

He felt safe, but he knew it was a delusion. They'd have discovered his escape by now. Would his face already be plastered all over the _Daily Prophet_? He smiled to himself. No one had ever escaped Azkaban before.

Just as soon as he'd thought that, the smile vanished off his face. He'd escaped Azkaban for a reason. The fear and rage from before surged through him and for a moment he lost his breath.

Sirius transformed into the dog, into Padfoot (trying to forget that he was Padfoot, that he had once been one of four, that he'd once been loved and had loved in return), and left the barn. He was in the Muggle world. He was pretty sure he'd be safe there, but he wouldn't know until...until what? He had no idea _where_ exactly he was, if there was a magical village nearby, somewhere he could scrounge up a paper and have a look at what the wizarding world had to say about him.

Nothing nice, he knew. Not after everything he'd allegedly done.

He padded out onto a gravel road, following it westward. He was sure it was west – his knowledge of the stars hadn't disappeared, he discovered, not sure what to make of that. The stars hadn't exactly symbolised anything good in his life. He made a face (the dog - not Padfoot, never Padfoot again - growled).

The road opened onto a larger road, this one covered with tarmac.

And Sirius didn't know where to go. In a moment of confusion, he transformed back, hoping the additional height (and colour vision) would help him out. It was a vain thought, really, because neither height nor colour vision could help him much in the middle of the night or make up his mind about direction. To the north lay Hogwarts and Scotland (of this much Sirius was sure, Azkaban was too far away from Scotland that he'd have swum ashore there) and to the south lay...Remus.

Did he even still live there? Would he have been able to afford the house without James' help? _His_ help?

Sirius sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut. Not James, not now, don't think about James. It's Harry now, he's the only one left. Not Remus (don't think of him as Moony, just don't). Just Harry. He let out a puff of breath, his hands closed into fists. He could feel his weakness in his fingers, in how he wasn't quite able to clench them tightly. Harry and Hogwarts were in north.

No. It was summer. Even now, Harry was in the south, he was in Surrey... Remus' house – no. Not Remus. Not...

Sirius raked his fingers through his hair. They got stuck; his hair was a tangled, dirty mess (though it did smell of sea and hay). Had he been someone else, had he been the Sirius of old, the Sirius pre-Azkaban, the Sirius pre-murderous rage, he would've mourned his hair.

Now, he only mourned James and Lily. And Remus. Remus was as lost to him as James, as Lily, as Harry. Even Harry was lost to him.

His chest tightened and for a moment he wondered what good he had hoped to do by escaping Azkaban. He would find Pe – the rat, yes, and he would make him _pay_ , but he was painfully aware that it wouldn't bring anything back. The rat had stolen twelve years and he had stolen the lives of two amazing people, but he couldn't give them back.

Two large, bright lights approached rapidly from the right and Sirius blinked. He saw that there were more than just two lights, he could count at least six, and the thing they were on was large and noisy and Sirius realised with a shock that it was a Muggle vehicle.

And it was slowing down. Sirius stood, unsure whether he should run or change into the dog. The driver must've seen him, so he didn't dare. The vehicle stopped next to Sirius and the driver leaned over, rolled the window down and called out to him.

"Do you need a lift?"

Sirius regarded him for a brief moment. He had a scarred, chubby face and a gruff voice. And friendly eyes.

"Er...you don't happen to be on the way to Aldershot?" Sirius asked and then nearly bit his tongue off. He forgot to be surprised at the sound of his own voice.

"Close enough," said the driver. "Hop in." The door clicked open and Sirius heaved himself up, not without difficulty. He closed the door after him and then looked around uncertainly.

The vehicle set in motion. Sirius discovered it wasn't very noisy on the inside. The seat he was sitting on was soft and velvety and in front of him there was something hard and shiny with things on it he recognised from his old Muggle motorcycle. He looked up and saw that the road before them was disappearing rapidly under them. It almost felt like flying.

"You need to put your seat belt on, lad," the driver said gruffly. He looked over. His gaze lingered for a second on Sirius' bare feet. "This thing," he explained, tapping his own.

Sirius looked around and found something that looked like what the driver was wearing and pulled on it. He sneaked a glance at the driver and saw it was fastened to something on the side of the seat, so he looked to see if there was one for him as well. He clicked the seat belt closed.

"You're not one of those lads from Frankland, are you?"

"Er..." Sirius looked at him, bewildered. "I'm afraid I don't know what that is."

"High security prison," the driver answered, pointing with his thumb the direction he'd come from.

"Oh. No, I'm...well, I'm from Azkaban." Sirius cleared his throat. "It's a, er, high security prison in, er, the North Sea. On a rock..."

The driver gave him a searching gaze and Sirius thought for a moment that he’d be thrown out and left on his own. Eventually, the driver made a sort of consenting noise.

Sirius didn’t know what the driver had seen when he’d looked at him, but when it didn't look like he'd say anything else, Sirius turned to press his forehead against the window, watching fields and forests pass by darkly.

 

*

"Do you want some coffee?"

Sirius was startled out of his thoughts. The driver was holding out a mug of coffee. "Thanks," Sirius replied, taking the mug. It was hot and Sirius couldn't remember when was the last time he'd felt heat like this.

"What'd you go to jail for?" the driver asked, pouring himself a mug full of coffee from something long and cylindrical with a tartan pattern on it.

"Nothing." Sirius inhaled the scent of the coffee. It filled not only his nostrils but also his heart.

"Men don't go to jail for nothing, lad."

"I was..." Sirius swallowed. "I was betrayed by someone I thought was my friend." He closed his eyes, focusing on the coffee fragrance. It was everywhere now, the only thing he could smell, and if he only focused on it enough, he could almost imagine sitting in Moony's kitchen – Sirius' eyes flew open. He looked grim. "I was accused of murder," he said in a low voice. "Two murders I'd have rather died than commit, twelve murders I wouldn't ever have committed and one that I was set out to do, but never got the chance to fulfil."

"An innocent?" The driver glanced over. Sirius' eyes were filled with a cold, bone-cracking fury. He hadn't touched his coffee yet. "The coffee isn't poisoned."

Sirius' eyes darted into the mug. He could almost see his reflection in the dark liquid, a black shadow looming over the rim of the mug. "I haven't had coffee in twelve years."

The heat from the mug was almost scalding his hands, but Sirius didn't care. It was heat, it was heat unlike anything he'd had for a very long while and he didn't want to let it go. It was slowly spreading up his arms and into the rest of him. He took a small, tentative sip.

Immediately, the moment the scorching drop touched his tongue, he was overwhelmed with flavour, warmth, bitterness and a myriad memories of his former life, of people he'd once loved (still loved, painfully), a home he'd run away from, safety, sweetness, frustration and long nights. His heart was beating wildly.

The driver was watching him furtively.

"Who are you?" he asked eventually.

"I'm a wizard," replied Sirius, staring into the mug, chest heaving as he breathed hard, running away from the memories (or was he running towards them?). "I'm a wizard." His voice broke, but he didn't fight the tears.

He cradled the mug with his left hand, holding it close to his chest (the heat radiating from it warmed him), while he stared at his trembling right hand. His wand hand. For the first time since crawling onto land, probably the first time since even before he left Azkaban, he missed his wand. He watched his fist clench and unclench, remembered the feel of it in his palm, the low tingle of magic.

Did he still have his magic?

"A wizard?" asked the driver, sceptical. "I'll believe that when I see it." His voice was gruff, but warm and Sirius knew he didn't quite believe him.

Sirius also knew he could sway him, if only he could – if only he knew – his eyes darted around the cabin (was it cabin? Pit? Sirius wasn't sure, he wasn't all that well-versed in Muggle things, he thought he'd ask Rem-) looking for something he could transfigure or charm in any way. He had been all right at wandless magic, once, all right meaning charming paper cranes to fly with messages to those he was not going to think about now, or making water shape into figures when he was bored at mealtimes. But he hadn't done magic for twelve years.

He tried to reason that he could still turn into a dog, but that was a different magic altogether, one that didn't require a wand – it was magic from within. But wasn't wandless magic also magic from within? Wasn't _all_ magic magic from within? He took another small sip from his coffee, imagining he was drawing strength from it. His heart was still beating rapidly.

"Do you have any paper?"

"Check the glove compartment."

"The what?" Sirius looked around in confusion until the driver pointed at it. Sirius blinked, trying to open it with pulling at the crack with his nails (unsuccessfully) until he thought of pushing some of the buttons. The compartment sprang open, startling Sirius.

He put his mug down in his lap and rummaged in the compartment until he found something that looked like an old newspaper. He pulled it out, tore a page from it and...looked at it.

"I don't know if it will work," Sirius said. "I haven't done magic in twelve years. Azkaban...drains you." He drew in a deep, shaky breath, then folded the paper into the familiar pattern of a crane. He let it sit in his palm for a minute.

It didn't look anything like the paper cranes of his youth. This one was made of flimsy newspaper, grey and smudged, with black lettering all over it. In a way, it reminded Sirius of himself. He wasn't anything like his youthful self, either. He, too, was grey and fragile. Smudged.

Sirius put his other hand over the crane, brought it up to his mouth and whispered an incantation, almost forgotten, and opened his hands. The crane took off, flapping around the cabin aimlessly. Sirius could've cried, but he laughed, he laughed the strange, hollow laughter of someone who hasn't known laughter for a long time, the disbelieving laughter of someone who'd lost all hope.

"Blimey!" the driver said, looking at the crane. "A real wizard, eh?"

"Yes," Sirius choked, his laughter dying down. "A real wizard...but they probably snapped my wand," he said darkly.

 

*

Everything was dark. Sirius could see his own reflection in the glass and it was not a sight he liked in the slightest. Still, it was him.

"What's in Aldershot?" the driver asked without glancing over.

“A memory,” Sirius replied slowly. “Just a memory.”

“Lads don’t go places for memories,” the driver commented. “It’s got to be a strong memory of yours to pursue it.”

Sirius chest tightened and hurt and he sucked in a shallow breath. “He is strong.”

He couldn’t be, Remus simply _couldn’t_ be - but he was, he - werewolves didn’t usually - he just couldn’t.

“A mate of yours, I take it?” The driver reached over to grab a bag of crisps. He opened it noisily and stuffed a few into his mouth before offering the bag to Sirius.

“He once was,” Sirius answered reluctantly, eyeing the bag of crisps warily. He took one and put it into his mouth, scrunching up his nose at the strong saltiness off it. For a moment, it chased away his fear. “I highly doubt he’ll want to acknowledge my existence anymore.”

His chest heaved and hurt again; speaking the words aloud felt like betrayal, almost worse than the betrayal he believed himself guilty of. He should’ve known, he shouldn’t have insisted on the switch, and in that lay his betrayal - but to Remus, doubting him even when he knew it would be true, it was true betrayal.

Was their friendship worth nothing to him anymore? Sirius stared at his pale and scruffy reflection in the window. Their friendship meant the world to him, but what kind of friendship was it? It didn’t exist anymore.

There was no friendship.

Sirius swallowed hard, accepting that his life was still as over as it had been twelve years ago, the moment the rat had slipped through his fingers. This time he didn’t feel like laughing.

“Have another coffee.” A mug was shoved into his face and Sirius accepted it wordlessly. The only certainty in his life was that he had coffee.

He pushed away all thoughts of Remus, staring at the black road in front of him. It appeared to come at him, as if he was flying over it high speed and ahead, inevitably, lay Aldershot. Sirius shuddered and closed his eyes.

 

*

The air in the cabin smelled of strong coffee and crisps. Sirius wondered briefly whether the smells were only this strong because he hadn’t smelled food for twelve years.

Moo- Remus’ coffee always smelled strong.

The darkness ahead of him was slowly dwindling. Dawn should’ve come as a relief; Sirius vaguely remembered loving dawns, loving the light spreading over the walls, the sheets and Rem-

He hated dawn. He hated the grey road in front of him and the trees on the roadside and how Aldershot was looming closer and closer and there wasn’t anything he could do to prevent it.

“A little less than an hour and I can drop you off. Got an address?”

The driver’s voice was soft and warm and friendly, in fact the friendliest thing Sirius had come across since Hagrid with Harry bundled in his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut.

He hadn’t dared go inside the house, hadn’t dared see the state James would’ve been in, or Lily. Where had his bravery been when he’d needed it so?

“Lowe Close,” Sirius eventually said. He felt cold.

He didn’t want to see the house, didn’t want to see if Remus - but he had to be, it was _Remus_ , he couldn’t be gone. He didn’t want to do anything at all.

The driver picked up a map and threw it a glance when he could afford to take his eyes off the road.

“Can’t take the truck there and even if I did, I probably couldn’t get back out,” he grunted. “I’ll drop you off there.” He pointed at the big road next to Lowe Close, separated by a small copse of trees.

Sirius felt his blood turn cold. He nodded.

The side-view mirror didn’t show him any mercy. The grey light didn’t do him any favours. Sirius stared at his reflection, at his sallow skin and dirty, tangled hair and the out-of-control beard. His eyes were hollow, lifeless.

He didn’t know this man and doubted he ever had.

The charmed paper crane was slowly losing its life, but it stubbornly kept fluttering. Sirius picked it out of the air and crushed it.

The rat was going to _pay_.

 

*

“That’s it, lad.” The driver stalled the car.

Sirius looked out the window and saw a glimmer of houses behind the trees. He turned to face the driver, who was silently scrutinizing him, now he had proper light to see him with.

“Thank you.” Sirius spoke softly, but his voice was hoarse. It was broken, he was sure it was. It hadn’t been this broken before Azkaban.

“Take care of yourself,” the driver said. “You’re a good kid.”

A bitter laugh forced itself out of Sirius throat. “Maybe once I was,” he said. “I’m not so sure anymore.” He looked at his bare, filthy toes and his lip curled.

“They say innocence is a strong-backed creature.” The driver poured more coffee into his mug. “You may think you’re broken, lad, but I’ve seen your soul.”

Sirius gave him a startled look.

“Do what you have to do.”

“Thank you,” Sirius said again, opened the door and jumped out. He slammed the door shut and watched as the truck got smaller and smaller and eventually disappeared.

The sun was shining now, but it gave no warmth. Sirius walked into the bushes off the roadside and transformed into a dog - not Padfoot, never Padfoot again - and trotted onto the street.

It looked the same as when he’d last been here. And Remus’ house, the one he’d lived in when they were young and stayed in after his parents had passed away, was still there.

Sirius approached the house slowly. The dust bin outside the house smelled, so someone definitely lived there, but Sirius didn’t dare look at the name plate on the mail box.

Where was his courage?

Instead he approached the window timidly, put his paws on the sill and carefully looked in.

What he saw broke his heart and tore at his gut in ways he didn’t think possible. There was Remus, his Remus, his Moony, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee (Sirius could smell it) and a copy of the Prophet.

He looked worn and wrung-out, lines of worry creased his brow and Sirius was _sure_ that the lightness he glimpsed in his hair was grey (darn monochrome).

While Sirius watched, Remus let out a deep sigh, put the paper down and picked up a letter. He read the letter, perhaps three times, before he got up and left the kitchen. Sirius strained to see where he’d gone (he thought he might come back, he’d left his mug on the table) and when Remus suddenly appeared in the doorway, Sirius ducked.

Remus didn’t appear to have noticed him. He sat again, arranged the ink bottle, blotting paper and parchment he had evidently fetched, and set out to write.

Sirius was positively dying of curiosity. Remus, his Moony (Merlin, it hurt, but he was his, how could he not be?) was looking grave and kept glancing at the paper, as if to seek strength from it, to confirm that whatever he was writing in the letter was the right thing to do.

His brow creased and Sirius hated the worn out look on him, the threadbare clothes he was wearing and his - his solitude.

An involuntary whine escaped him and Remus looked up, instantly alert. Sirius was too shocked to duck and for a second their eyes met.

Sirius ran.

He heard the door open behind him, felt Remus’ eyes on him as he ran, down the street, _away_ , away from the heartbreak that was Remus, away from the consequences of his own long absence.

He had seen him and he regretted it.

Now there was only room for one person in his mind, one emotion. Hate fuelled him as he ran, hate and the promise that the rat would get what he deserved. He would pay, he would pay sorely for his crimes, and even if it didn’t bring anything back, if it didn’t make everything okay - Sirius would feel better.

At last, he would commit the crime he had been imprisoned for and the world would be a more just place.


End file.
